Fable III: Legends of Skorm
by LittlePinkOwl
Summary: "Whatever his crimes, he will always be her brother." It's been five years since Lucia defeated the Darkness and she feels more alone than ever. When Logan returns with news of a new threat, the young queen does all she can to mend their broken relationship. But is she getting too close? [WARNING: Incest]
1. Heroes and Beasts

**A/N: **Realised how rushed the original was and decided to rewrite it. Hope this one is better. Please read and review! :)

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**Heroes + Beasts**

If Lucia believes in one thing, it is not dwelling on the past. Yet it is all she does now.

As a child she was never nostalgic. It was always tomorrow; _tomorrow I'll sneak outside the castle with Elliot and swim in the lake, tomorrow I'll make a sword out of wood to practice with, tomorrow I'll climb the tallest tree, spread my arms out wide and pretend I'm a Sparrow like father. _To her, the past was nothing more than a memory, but there always more to experience with each coming day –and she would experience it regardless of how many times her brother rebuked her for it.

Logan always was too protective. As children, he would often lecture her about smallest of things, such as reading stories about Balverines before bedtime or kicking a young noble boy for abusing a Border Collie. Usually she would listen to her elder brother. But on the occasion she didn't, he would tattle on her to their parents, greatly exaggerating her misdeeds. When their father was murdered and her mother, a Hero herself, went to seek revenge, his worrisome nature became that much worse. She was forbidden to leave the castle without either him or Walter and he had the nanny dress her in frocks to keep her from climbing.

Looking back now, Lucia realises her brother wasn't being entirely unreasonable. He was fifteen at the time, a man and a King who had already seen too much, while she was still but a child of seven. She couldn't see the dangers the way he could.

Innocence. What a beautiful thing it is.

How nice it must be to not know the cruelty of the cards of Fate. She misses it. Almost as much as she misses him. For all the horrible things he's done –things she can never forgive- she would give anything to have him back nonetheless. He has always shared her burdens, and without him she fears there may be too many for her to carry.

The queen sighs and shifts uncomfortably in her throne. Her body aches, though whether from the heavy golden crown on her head or from the weight of Albion's lifeblood resting on her shoulders, she doesn't know.

Winter has given way to spring. The soft rays of sun wash the walls with light coloured green, gold and blue from the stained glass windows through which it shines, so blindingly bright she can scarcely see the faces of those in front of her. The faces of the court are cast in shadow, with eyes shining from beneath the darkness, reminding her of those beings she fought long ago. Lucia turns her gaze to the intricate embroidery of her pastel blue gown, trying once again to forget the past.

She listens half-heartedly as Sir Thomas Kroll announces to the court that today she will be deciding the fate of the pirate slavers in the Northern Wastes. He is older than her and younger than her previous advisor, with long, mousy brown hair, scars raking down the left side of his face and eyes the murky grey of rain on a cobblestone street. And while every bit the solider Walter was, he is too disciplined. To withdrawn from the world. She imagines he could kill without even a trace of remorse. The longer she stares at him the more she wishes she could have Walter back, even if it would mean trading this man's life for his.

"Page will speak to free the slaves. Reaver will stand against her." Kroll declares, snapping the queen from her reverie.

The dark-skinned woman steps forward, her hair still wrapped in the ivory cloth Lucia remembers with the braids tied in a bun high on her head. With the exception of iron gauntlets and a lightweight steel vest, her attire hasn't changed much. The queen smiles. Page always was stuck in her ways.

"Years ago you promised to put an end to Albion's misery and I admire what you have already done, but Albion is _still_ suffering. Children as young as ten are dying from exhaustion! These people need our help. To deny them it would be to break your vows to this kingdom, your majesty."

Lucia knows she is right. This cannot go on. She has worked too hard to turn this kingdom around, sacrificed too much already, she will not see it fall apart for the sake of some slavers. She will not have all she has done wasted. They may find other people to scrub the blood from their boots, because so long as she breathes neither man nor beast will overcome her Albion. She has made her decision before Reaver opens his mouth, but permits him to speak all the same if only to her his ridiculous drivel.

"If I may, your majesty, these slaves are and always will be a valued part of our society. How else would we distinguish between the lord and the peasant?"

The queen does all she can to not roll her eyes. Be it a result of his time as a pirate himself or his deal for eternal youth, she has no doubt his moral compass is as black as the heart on his cheek. To think both her father and her brother could have befriended such a man!

"These slaves are simply the lesser being! Oh, my dear, think of the coin sav-"

"Er…er, pardon me, your majesty." The guard stutters from where he stands in the doorway, face pale as if he's seen a ghost.

"What is it, Brom?" Lucia asks, kindly.

"You…um…you have a guest."

With a bow, he gestures towards the doorway where a tall figure leans with his hands behind his back in a manner than is causal and regal all at once. She cannot see his face, only the dark outline of his frame. He has the body of a fighter; lean and muscular, with broad shoulders and strong arms. She can tell he is good with a sword and quick on his feet and, for the briefest of moments, she thinks it is her husband, the King, back from his travels to Aurora.

"Hello, sister."

His voice is like velvet.

Lucia is on her feet in an instant. She wants nothing more than to throw her arms around him and demand to know where he's been the last five years. It takes all her strength to restrain herself. She is queen now and queens do not behave that way. Besides the people of Albion protested enough when she pardoned him all those years ago, she doesn't think they will care much to see her display such affection to him. For now, she will reign in the urge to hold him, but the moment they are alone is a different story.

He has not changed much in the time since he exiled himself from her presence. His dark brown hair is still smoothed back from his face, his expression still brooding and he still wears only the finest clothes available to him. Time has weathered him some if the creases around his eyes are anything to go by, and there is a new scar on his temple that says he's run into trouble on at least one occasion. In all other ways, however, he is exactly as she remembers.

She cannot help but think of the last time they stood in this room together. The day she was to decide whether or not to have him killed. His words still ring in her head after all this time. _You have the power over life and death, sister. Now choose_. He said it so calmly, as if he had already anticipated she would execute him. She won't say she didn't think about it. She thought about it every day after Elliot's death, but somewhere deep down she always knew she couldn't go through with it.

Whatever his crimes, he will always be her brother.

"Logan." She breathes, the air catching in her lungs.

"Forgive the intrusion, your majesty." He says as he greets his old friend Reaver with a nod, "But I have learnt some things on my travels…things I think you ought to know."

Her heart sinks. He is here for Albion. Not her.

"And there have been things happening here, brother, that you should know."

Logan frowns. He has no idea what she means, does he? It breaks her heart to know how much distance has come between them. They used to inseparable. Now look at them; they might as well be strangers.

"Surely this news can wait, your majesty."

"It may surprise you, Page," Logan says, slowly, carefully, "but there are more pressing matters at hand."

"To you!" she snaps.

The slaves, the pirates, their iron grip on the Northern Wastes…This is what she should be focusing on, not her brother's return. She tells herself it is the last time she will steal a glance at him until the hearing is over. As Lucia turns to look at her brother one last time, she sees a flicker of fear in his eyes. He masks it well, though that doesn't mean it isn't there. Lucia sucks in a shallow breath. She has seen that expression mar his handsome features once before and she doesn't want to think what it could mean this time.

"You never cared for the people of this kingdom." Page says, gesturing around the room.

"Everything I have done has been for the good of Albion. Every lie, every kill, every betrayal-" she can feel his eyes on her now even as she looks away "-all of it has been for this land."

There is silence. No one dares to speak. Lucia wonders if it is because of her brother's ability to command a room or if they are merely picking apart his words. She does not doubt his honesty or his loyalty to their country. He does not enjoy killing the way everyone thinks he does. If he did, he would have run her through with his sword the day she stormed the castle and kept the crown for himself, but he didn't.

Because they both know, she is the one Albion needs.

"So don't say I do not care."

"If you cared you wouldn't have let this place fall to ruin!"

"Enough! I will see to it the slaves are freed and the pirates punished. Now, please," Lucia sighs "leave us."

Their anger permeates the air, a bitter perfume that grows heavier and heavier the longer they stand there. Then finally Page bows and takes her leave. Soon the others start to follow. Reaver winks at Lucia and tips his hat to Logan before he vanishes into the small crowd. One by one, the people of Albion filter out of the throne room, whispering to one another as they go.

Only when the guards close the doors behind them and the whispers fade into silences does Lucia race to close the distance between her and Logan. She throws her arms around him, afraid if she does not hug him now she may not get the chance again. He tenses, shocked by the sudden pressure of her body against his, and it takes a few moments for him to relax into the embrace. When he does, he holds her even tighter. They have not hugged each other for so long and it surprises her how much she misses it.

He smooths down her hair while she closes her eyes and inhales the scent of him. At first all she smells is an expensive fragrance, then something sweet and faintly metallic. Something like lavender…and blood. The queen pulls away immediately to gaze down at his waist where, sure enough, there is a bundle of gauze under his vest. Without thinking, she reaches down to touch it, but Logan pulls her hand away.

"Don't worry. It's an old wound and it's healing fast."

There is something in his face as he says it, though she can't quite put her finger on what.

He winds a wayward curl of her strawberry blonde hair around his finger and somehow this small, insignificant action is all it takes to lift the weight from her shoulders. He makes her feel safe, she realises, as his dark brown gaze meets hers. It's a welcome feeling, what with all she's done and seen.

"Five years, Logan, and not a word."

"I had my reasons."

Shaking her head, she turns away from him. Reasons, reasons, reasons. Is that all he cares about?

"You always do, don't you brother? Avo forbid, you be held accountable for anything."

It's a low blow, but the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them. She watches the pain cross his face, proud to know she has wounded him and hating herself for it just as much.

Logan lets out a breath of exasperation. Index finger and thumb pressed to the bridge of his nose, he closes his eyes. No doubt counting to ten just as he had all those years ago when they were children and she would irritate him with her rebellious ways.

"What have I done now, Lucia?"

"Nothing." she says, tired, "It doesn't matter."

It's a lie, of course. It _does_ matter. To her, at least. _He_ should have been there to help her to run the kingdom, _he_ should have been there walk her down the aisle since their father could not, _he_ should have been there to hold her hand and tell her everything would be alright as she lay screaming and writhing in agony in her bedchamber. He had told her once he would never leave her side. That her troubles were his troubles, her happiness his happiness, yet he was there for neither. He had left her to face her fears alone and to share her joys with everyone but him. And the worst of it is he doesn't realise what he's done. Or hasn't, in this case.

Mouth pressed into a hard line, Logan pulls a scroll from out of his belt and hands it to her.

"What's this?" she asks, tearing off the aubergine silk.

"Allegiances I made to other kingdoms in your name."

_Allegiances? _ She thinks, bewildered.

Unrolling the sheet of parchment, Lucia studies the list of countries she is now tied to courtesy of her brother's dealings. Gaul, Runne, Samarkand, Narcissus, Preiga, and the Further Lands are the first in a long list of names. These are the ones she recognises at least, the ones she had previously tried to make ties with and failed.

Many declared they would only stand with her if there were a marriage involved. She might have even considered it if it meant gaining the great countries Gaul or Narcissus as allies, but that would mean marrying someone who wasn't of Archon blood and the people of Albion would not have it. They wanted a pureblood heir. There have been too many half-blood descendants overtime and they fear the Hero's blood is waning quickly. For centuries, where there were siblings with Archon blood one would be a Hero, the other would have magic of their own and, sooner or later, the weaker of the two would die. Even their aunt Rose must have had some magic in her to open the music box. The fact that Logan has no powers to speak of and lived long enough to become a tyrant and a fallen king has left the people of Albion apprehensive. Without more purebloods, the Hero line could be all but a myth in a few centuries. Who would save them then?

Lucia didn't mind marrying a Hero to put her people's mind at ease, however she hated knowing she lost potential allies in doing so. Moreover, she hates knowing her brother could secure ties she couldn't without the issue of marriage. It is both impressive and infuriating. She would not dare to make such a decision for him if the roles were reversed.

"You had no right t-"

"I know." Logan says, a little too harshly, "I know, but during my visit to Runne I heard talks of a creature."

She swallows hard, suddenly aware of a lump forming in her throat.

"What kind of creature?"

"A demon of some kind." He shakes his head, as if trying to remember, "They say it feeds on pain and death, that it can drive its victim to madness."

His words bring back memories of her battle with the Darkness. She is in Bowerstone Market again, her sword heavy in her hands, wounds tearing open with every flourish. She remembers how tired she felt, how she had all but given in when she struck the Crawler with the killing blow. Though the events of the battle are foggy, the memory of her aching body and Walter's blood warming her fingers is something she can never forget. No matter how hard she tries. She is no coward. But she is afraid.

"This thing…It's like the Crawler?" she sounds childlike even to her own ears.

He looks away, pointedly avoiding her gaze.

"They said it is its brother."

The queen sets her jaw. Had she the choice, Lucia would rather not face a creature like it again. She doesn't need the extra scars or sleepless nights –she has enough of those already- and she doesn't want to have to go burying more of her friends. She _will_ fight though. She has too. There is too much at stake.

"Then we shall kill it."

His smiles a kind of sad, solemn smile.

"For Albion." He agrees.

"For my son."


	2. A Garden of Weeds

**A/N: **Hopefully Logan isn't too OOC, still trying to flesh him out. Anyway, read and review.

And also thanks to the people who've favourited. You rock! x

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**A Garden of Weeds**

"Why didn't you send word?" Logan asks, leaning against the ebony desk.

He is numb with shock. His muscles start to cramp after being tensed for so long. It could have been a minute since he last moved from his place against the desk or it could have been hours, the concept of time has somehow vanished. It's as if the world has stopped. He almost doesn't trust his own eyes, but no matter how many times he tells himself he must be mad or dreaming, the evidence is there in front of him. This is real. Her floral scent lingering in the air around him tells him so. She is really sitting there in front of him, holding an infant in her arms. Not just any infant either. Her child. His nephew.

He should feel overjoyed. His sister has a beautiful, healthy son and Albion an heir, yet there is an ache in his chest that he cannot ignore. Something inside him twists and coils, making him feel ill. This picture is wrong. It shouldn't be this way.

"I had no idea where you were." She counters.

He watches her rock the small child to sleep. Her formal court gown gone, replaced with a queen's dress torso and trousers. Somehow it makes her all the more beautiful. Her hair she has fashioned into a long braid over her shoulder, which her young son clutches onto as he falls asleep. He is a charming boy, the prince. His hair is only a shade or two lighter than Logan's and his face peaceful as he slowly drifts off. Everything about the child, right down to his small pout, is reminiscent of his mother. There is not a trace of his father in his little face, in fact it wouldn't be difficult to imagine there is no father, that this child is hers and hers alone. The Fallen King smiles at the thought. It would be easier for him to take in if that truly were the case. Because husband or not, he doesn't want to think that any man has lain with his sister.

Lucia is as good with a child as she is with a sword. She soothes and whispers her adoration in between warm smiles, and when the child finally falls in asleep in her arms, she sets him down in his crib, unable to tear her eyes away for too long. Hmmm. It seems there is nothing she can't handle. Yet he, much older and more experienced, manages to lay to ruin everything he touches. How different they are. If the world is as full of opposites as they say then she is the light to his darkness.

He is proud of her. She has become the woman he always wanted her to be. A strong, intelligent, kind woman with the power to command a nation. It pleases him to know she has finally embraced it after all these years.

Albeit, she learnt to become such a woman through standing against him. He didn't anticipate her betrayal, but in time he had come to realise that only cruelty would teach her to acknowledge the power she holds. Had he not had her dear friend executed, he fears she would still think herself less than him. Logan tells himself it was for her own good. That she would never have fought as hard as she did or become the great figurehead she has if he had let the boy live. It is the only way he knows to deal with the guilt of it all.

"What is his name?" he asks, carefully.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her sink into the chaise lounge as she sucks in a shaky breath. Logan doesn't dare look at her face. He doesn't need to be reminded of the anguish he has caused her. Or of the knowledge that she could never forgive him. Even now, he doesn't know what's worse; her pain or her ire.

"Walter."

He frowns. Walter. Not Elliot.

"But-"

"But what, brother?"

It is a challenge. A dare. The same kind of dangerous provocation he gave her when he demanded she choose between her betrothed or her people. She had made the choice he needed her to, the choice he himself would have made, and it terrified and reassured him in equal measure.

She juts her chin out slightly in defiance, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she tries not to show her cards. Little does she know he has already seen every one of them, he has them memorised right along with the dimples that appear when she smiles and the way she flexes her fingers when she feels threatened –as though calling her magic in preparation for an attack. There is nothing about her that he hadn't taken in long ago. No-one will ever know her as he does. And, awful as it sounds, he owns her in a way. Lucia is _his_ family. _His_ blood. It only makes sense that she should belong to _him_.

He traces his fingers along the old globe on the desk, wanting to forget about damned Elliot.

"Preiga and the Further Lands consist mainly of mages and magic wielders, and while they are by no means Heroes, they should be able to weaken the creature enough for the other soldiers to move in."

He doesn't stop when, eyes glazed, she pours herself a glass of wine.

"Gaul can provide fifteen hundred men, Moravia eleven and Runne eight. Their numbers are nothing compared to Narcissus and Vrelali, but their men are stron-"

"I don't care, Logan."

Grinding his teeth, he drops his hand from where it rests on the man-made replica of the world before him. Does she not remember the Darkness?! The shadow children and the thick black liquid that dripped and oozed from everything around them. Has she forgotten the creature's maddening taunts or its hold on their minds? Perhaps she only sees her enemies as a threat when they are standing in front of her. But by then it will be too late! Though she may have Archon blood, she is not invincible. Nor will she ever be.

She is a fool if she thinks otherwise.

The creature that is coming, be it a brother of the Crawler's or not, its powers are not to be underestimated. He has heard the stories, how it has made even the bravest of men fall to their knees in defeat, and of the ones who have faced it and lived, most have taken their own lives. If the Crawler was Darkness incarnate, then this is Terror personified. Stories say its lifeblood is its victim's weaknesses, their doubts and their losses only serve to strengthen it further, and though his sister likes to think herself unafraid of anything, she _is_ human. Somewhere, underneath all the valour and the armour, there is disquiet. No matter how deeply buried, the creature will find it. Just as the Crawler found his inner corruption.

A corruption he hadn't known existed until that very day.

While he stands there fearing for everything and everyone, she sits on the chaise lounge -an empty glass in her hand and wine staining her lips- absentmindedly thumbing through an old history book! Her expression is one of boredom. Earlier she had agreed to fight whatever creature this is, despite the fear that was evident on her face, and now she acts as though it is of little concern to her! Has she no regard for her own life?! For that of her son?!

"You will care," he says in a low growl, "when this beast threatens to take your son away from you."

Lucia glowers darkly at him and stands to pour herself a second helping, "I would die first!"

"And so you shall…if we do not start making preparations now!"

"I defeated the Crawler, didn't I?!" she asks, taking a sip of her freshly poured wine, "This is no different."

"That is not good enough!_" _Logan swipes his hand across the desk in outrage.

The globe and a pile of books come crashing to the floor with an unforgiving _clatter_. Tiny screws and bolts that held the globe in place litter the ground. The books sit bent and broken, overcome by his outrage. There is a twinge of pain in his abdomen. The blasted wound has torn open again! He will tend to it later. For now, he clenches his fists to keep from winching. Lucia says nothing, she does nothing, it is almost as if the last few moments never happened. As if there had been no outburst.

That is until Walter wakes with a bloodcurdling cry.

Logan runs a hand through his hair, willing his nephew back to sleep if only to stop the awful sound. He can hardly hear himself think beyond the young prince's screeching. It's maddening. He is half tempted to leave just to get away from it. But he forces himself to stay.

He will not go until the argument is settled.

Until his sister understands that without a plan, they are all doomed.

"You frightened him!"

So he has. A wave of guilt hits him. This child is not just anyone's, it is _hers._ Logan must care for him as if he were his own. He must hold him in the highest regard. For anything that she loves, he shall love as well.

The Fallen King crosses the room until he is no more than a few inches away from her. He makes to take the child from her, but she only grips the young boy tighter. Her hands clamped around his tiny frame as though clinging on for dear life. He notices a trace of fear in her eyes. There is a part of her, however small, that truly believes he would do him harm. She does not trust him. He is a tyrant and a murderer but this…this is a new low. To have his very sister edge away from him for fear of what he would do to her son! There is no agony like it. The wound in his side is but a small discomfort in comparison to the ache he now feels in his chest.

Even with his own nephew, he is to be doubted.

"Let me." he implores, having to raise his voice to be heard over Walter's cries.

She remains stubborn, trying to sooth her son herself as best she can. Only when the screams get louder does she finally give in.

He sways back and forth gently, humming the old lullaby their mother used to sing to them as children. No, he doesn't have her elegant tone or wonderful singing voice, but he manages ease Little Walter's sobs all the same. He feels eight again, holding Lucia in his arms for the first time. By Avo, he knew even then that he would love no other woman as he loves her.

Not even Maya, the Narcissan beauty he had come to bed during his travels, could tear his thoughts away from his sister. Perhaps it was their father's doing. He had lost his own sister long ago and he did not want the same fate to befall his son. Nonetheless, he is sure their father only meant for them to protect their family. He did not mean for Logan to become as…obsessed as he has. Or perhaps, he may be ill. The Crawler penetrated his mind much too easily those nine years ago and he fears he may have been by then depraved already. Whatever the reason for the demons that plague him, he will put them to rest soon enough.

Tomorrow he will set course for Grimmhaven, where he will speak to an alchemist about a range of deadly potions. He needs to know if there is any way to control them. If they may brew such a poison that would kill only those they wanted it to while leaving all other's unharmed. Then in the following days, he will travel to Obsidian to see if there is any way to unlock a dormant Hero's magick. He will focus on the coming battles and keeping Albion safe. It is the only way to keep his mind away from her. To temporarily cure himself of this perversion. Only when he has rid of himself of this disease will he finally be able to be by her side once more. He may never be the kind of man she is proud to call her brother, but he will sleep easier when he doesn't have the bear the guilt of loving her.

Logan rubs his thumb across Walter's temple in tender, repetitive strokes. The screaming fades to a small whimper. Tears stain his nephew's face as he slowly drifts off to sleep a second time. Without a word, Logan hands the child back to her, a small smile playing on his lips. Lucia takes her son eagerly, eyes wide with disbelief.

"How did you…?" she trails off, staring down at her son in wonderment.

"You were a child once. As your brother, I took it upon myself to settle you when no-one else could."

Her face softens. Not as much as he would like, but enough.

Enough to understand that what he does he does out of love and nothing else. He doesn't want to frighten or anger her, he doesn't want to push her further away than he already has, however, he would much rather have her alive to hate him and call him a tyrant than he would have her stand beside him and die.

With their father gone and his former kingdom against him, she is all he has now. She is all he wants, all he has ever wanted, and he will not cut corners where her life is concerned. He will make her bend to his will if it means keeping her safe. War, politics, ruthless dealings with equally ruthless men -she will learn it all whether she wants to or not. When it comes to matters such as these, he doesn't care that she is queen and her words are law, he _will_ make her understand. He has to. Without her, his life would be meaningless. Without her, he would have given up long ago.

"You used to care for me." she says, looking through him as if replaying some long forgotten memory, "Now all you care about is war."

He wants to hold her, to prove to her that nothing holds more of his heart than her, but it is an urge to which he must not yield. If she ever learns the truth, she would turn him away in an instant. It would only wreak havoc on their fragile relationship. He has done enough damage already; if he is going to ruin them further it will be to protect her rather than to ease his own pain.

Logan sighs, "The wars I fight I fight for you, sister."

"But why?!" she hisses, keeping her voice low so as not to wake Little Walter, "What is the point if you're not here at my side?!"

"I am _always_ at your side."

For the first time since he first saw her in the throne room, he can see how tired she is. Dark crescent half-moons encircle her eyes, the same faint purple of fading bruises, and feather-light frown lines rest between her brows. Albion has demanded too much of her already and Lucia, being who she is, has no doubt given in. He does not mind that the burdens of his rule aged him so, but she is still young. A woman her age should not look as weary as she does.

Logan wonders if she is _too good_ to be a queen. She has raised this country from the ashes in which he left it, fed and educated men, women and children of all ages and has defended again and again with her life. But, who defends _her_? Now that he is gone, who protects _her_?

He can't help but think if he had been around these five years things would be different. Firstly, she would not be left to wither away like a dying flower in a garden of weeds, any demands made upon her would go through him, and he would decide what to trouble her with. Secondly, they would face every battle together, they would share the weight of the kingdom and the scars they received protecting it. But, deep down, he knows that is little more than a fancy. A good monarch does not rest; they forever place the needs of their country above their own. One will always thrive while the other wanes, and that is the end of it. It is why he never wanted her to take the throne. Under his rule, he could protect her from the evils of the world while also running his kingdom –for a time, anyway. Now that she is queen, his old burdens are hers, and they will wear her down as they did him. This, he decrees, is punishment for his crimes.

For which there must be a lifetime penance.

"I thought, after everything I had done, you would have welcomed my absence."

Holding her son in one arm, she presses her hand to his face. Lucia caresses the scar on his lip. Despite his mind telling him to leave, his body remains rigid. Reluctant. One touch, one brush of her skin on his, and she has rendered him helpless. He is deaf and dumb and blind to all except her. By Avo, he knows it's wrong, she is his sister and she has a husband, yet he cannot deny that he wants more. He will always want more.

"No." She shakes her head. "I want here with me."

Logan takes her hand in his and gives it a soft kiss, "Very well."

After all, who is he to refuse the Queen of Albion?


	3. Old Wounds

**A/N:** Hope you guys like it! Took forever to try and get them in character, still don't think I managed it completely but...oh well. Anyway, read and review! x

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**Old Wounds**

Lucia rises from the warm bath, her body cleansed and covered in suds of water. It is one of the rare occasions she is not besieged by her many handmaidens and even then it took some convincing to get them to allow her to bathe alone. There would be two here now –one to scrub her skin and another to wash her hair- had she not lied and told them she did not want anyone to see her scars. They were kind when she said it, assuring her that nothing could mar the body of such a beautiful queen as her, and for a time she had given up trying to get them to go away. It wasn't until they caught her crying on night that they decided perhaps it was best to leave her be.

That was four years ago and still no-one interrupts her nightly routine.

Her scars don't really bother her. It was the people she lost she had cried over that night. Elliot, Walter, Aiden –the man who she had taken as her lover not long before she became queen.

They had met one day while she was traveling through Mourningwood, where he dropped down from a tree high above her head and pulled a gun on her. He didn't care that she was the princess. In fact when she told him, he smirked and bowed sarcastically. Whether it was his utter lack of respect for the monarchy or his fearlessness, she couldn't help but feel attracted to him. He was not the most handsome of men, but he had a way with women and she was no exception. It was a few months on, at a meeting for the Bowerstone Resistance, when she saw him again. A week and one too many bottles of Portentous Stout later and she took him to her bed.

Before Aiden, the last person she had lain with was Elliot -two days before his execution- and she missed the feel of a man's hands on her body, of moans of pleasure and whispers of devotion in her ear. In those moments when he was between her legs and his mouth on her lips, she felt loved. Wanted. He was the first in a long list of men who helped her through her grief.

No, abstinence and purity are not virtues she possesses, but she_ is_ faithful.

Loyalty binds her. It is the very root of her being. To her a person's trust is as of much value as their life and she would not betray it. That said, it isn't exactly easy being permitted to bed with only one man. More so, when her husband is away and her eyes are free to wander. There is no escaping it. A body wants what it wants. She plans to give the King a demonstration of this when he returns. Perhaps then his next journey will not be so long.

Ignoring her damp mess of hair, Lucia slips on her nightgown and leaves the great expanse of the bathroom behind to check on her son. Little Walter stirs in his crib, suckling away at his thumb as she smiles down at him. He is such a good boy, her little prince. When his dear uncle doesn't go about frightening him anyway.

Long before the revolution or the threat of the Crawler hanging over his head, Logan was a man of ill temper. One day it would be because a new shipment of rifles and cannons had been lost at sea, the next there was a tiresome tax reform he had to take care of, the day after that Duchess had left muddy paw-prints on the new luxury carpet. Whatever the reason, he was always on edge. Or troubled. Or wallowing. She thought his brooding would stop once she took the throne, and that his mischievous laughter would again once fill the castle halls. But no. She is used to his outbursts. It's Walter's terrified and tearful screams she doesn't know how to deal with.

Nothing she could do would calm him. Yet within moments of Logan taking her son in his arms and humming some old lullaby she didn't recognise, the cries stopped. Even now, she cannot believe it. He is better with his nephew than she dared to hope he would be; holding Little Walter when he can, teaching him to say 'Hero', taking him for walks in the gardens when he gets restless. Anyone would think he is as much Logan's as he is hers.

Her brother's love for her son is almost enough for her to forgive him his crimes. Almost.

Lucia pulls herself away from the sleeping child and makes her way to her old quarters where her brother now resides. It seems odd, walking up these steps to visit him now when, little over five years ago, she had been escourted here by two guards at his command. Things are different now. Logan is no longer the tyrant he was when the Darkness threatened Albion. At least, that's what she tells herself as she knocks on the unforgiving oak. There are no footsteps, no scratching of bolts being removed, no exasperated sighs from the other side. Nothing. She is about to take her leave when he opens the door.

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asks, scowling, "And at this hour. Have you forgotten you have a reputation to uphold?"

Lucia smiles and brushes past him, "I came to see how you were. Surely, there is no wrong in that."

He's annoyed, of that she is certain. He would not dare to enter her room this late in the evening when he was king. At this hour, a bedchamber is a place of intimacy, of losing oneself in another's body. To visit her brother at this time will lead to no end of wild rumours. But she doesn't care. She can't spend another night on her own. For she will only end up torturing herself with her own thoughts.

"You need to leave." He says, voice strained and impatient.

Only now does she fully take in the sight of him. Tousled dark hair, face white with a sheen of sweat, his fist clenched at his side, the deep crimson soaking through his shirt...

"You're bleeding!"

"It's fine. Please, go now."

Lucia lifts her brother's shirt to find the wound reopened. He inhales sharply as she examines the ragged, bloodied skin up close. Tiny lumps of metal graze her fingertips. This is more than a mere tear. Some of the fragments sit just beneath the skin, others are well hidden and wedged deeply into muscle. How long has he been walking around with the remains of damned bullets inside him, she wonders.

"Take off your shirt."

"I will see to it myself."

"You will do as I command."

Logan glares darkly at her and does as she says. His body is not all hard lines like most men she's seen, but elegant curves and unrelenting muscle. Lithe and dangerous. It makes him look softer, somehow, but no less powerful. He can still hold his own in battle. Can still take her hands in his and push them away. He can fight her, if he wants to. Though, he knows as much as her they are evenly matched, he makes no more attempts to refuse her.

It is the first time she has seen him unclothed since they were children and his scars are many. More than hers even. The ugliest runs from his right arm all the way across his chest. Much too long and too deep to be the result of any manmade sword. It is a claw mark and she knows full well the beast that gave it to him. His men died that day. All forty-four of them. From the looks of this mark, he could have one of them. She can taste the bile rising in her throat and swallows hard. Until now, she never realised how easily she could have lost him all those years ago.

Taking her hand in his, Logan closes the door and leads her towards the table on the far side of the room. The washbasin, the needle and thread, the dagger, it is all there. She frowns. He wasn't even going to call a doctor, or anyone else for help for that matter. Anything could have happened to him and she wouldn't have the slightest idea of it if she hadn't come.

With a shiver, Lucia shakes the thought away and lifts a bottle of wine.

"You have a problem, sister." He says, from behind her, "Perhaps you should try dealing with that before you see to me."

"Ah, but it is only a problem if I dislike it."

Logan takes the glass she proffers to him without complaint, sipping once and setting it aside just as quickly.

"I see Reaver is starting to rub off on you. Tell me, what else has he sullied in my absence?"

His voice is smooth and laced with bitterness. Under which there lies an unspoken threat.

"Nothing that I'm aware of."

His tensed throat muscles start to relax, and the corner of his lips come up in a barely visible smile. The untrained eye would not see it. But she does. She knows her brother too well. He can try to hide it all he likes, she knows he is smirking at her.

Lucia pours what is left of the wine into the bedpan and leaves it to boil on the fire. The fire iron would do just as well she supposes, but doctors say wine works best. When boiled, half a glass can purge the body's wounds of infection. It will be agony, of course, and the marks will take eons to fade if they ever do. Fortunately her brother does not indulge in vanity. He will not mourn the disfigurement of his body the way others would.

"I shall not sit by and watch you fall to waste for your wine. I have seen it happen to too many men already."

"Then be grateful I am not a man, brother."

One minute her brown eyes are on his, the next she is working the remains of the bullet out of his abdomen with the dagger. She eases the tip of the blade in between the muscle, doing all she can to work the bullet fragment out without harming him further. Logan grimaces every now and then, small, pained sounds escaping between clenched teeth, but otherwise he is quiet. A part of her wants to leave him be, reluctant to cause him any more pain, still she forces herself to keep going. If he has taught her anything, it is that cruelty and kindness are not so different.

Minutes later the first tiny metal piece fall into her blood-soaked palm. She smiles up at him, holding the tiny bullet shard between her finger and her thumb. He takes a long swig of wine and nods. Again, the dagger goes in and again she manages to work another piece out. It is a painstakingly slow process, and no sooner has she got one piece out do they start all over again.

There are nine pieces in total, four of which are so small they look like pieces of silver dust. Wiping her bloodied hands on her nightgown, she lifts the pan of boiling wine and carefully makes her way back to the bed.

"Do you need a moment?" she asks, seeing his white knuckles and the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

Logan shakes his head, "Let us be done with this."

Thus she tilts the pan just enough to allow the scalding liquid to drip on to the wound. By now, his restraint is all but wasted and a ragged scream claws its way out of his throat. Lucia stops, hands trembling and glances up at her brother once more.

"Do not stop." He manages between ragged breath, "You must remember, Lucia, I have been through worse. I have done worse."

The Queen of Albion is a connoisseur of pain, she has been through almost every kind and is privy to the rest, and she would like to think his words are a lie. The scars tell a different story. Steadying herself, she pours again. Wine meets skin with a sizzle. Through the fog of steam she can see his flesh melt and meld together and smell the foul stench of burning skin. His pain pains her also. Nonetheless, it is still better than stitching. The thing will not tear again and he will not bleed to death or die from infection.

When the wound is fully closed and the wine no longer bubbles against his smooth skin, Lucia places the cooled washcloth to Logan's side to ease the pain. He holds the washcloth in place with one hand and takes another guzzle of wine, eyeing her prudently as she grabs what clean linen she finds in the dresser for a makeshift gauze.

"You're certainly not a child anymore. But then a man only has to look at you to know that."

The words falls from his lips in a slow, seductive whisper that caresses the spine. He looks her up and down, eyes lingering over the curves of hip and mounds of breast. He is teasing her. He has to be. Lucia feels a blush being to stain her cheeks. She has seen such a look on men before, she just ever expected to see it on her brother as he gazes down at her.

The young queen clears her throat as she ties the many folds of linen around Logan's waist.

"About the allegiances...I can't go into battle with people I don't trust."

"Then it is good I made them take an oath."

"But I can't leave Walter to visit these people." she proceeds, ignoring all he has just said, "Which is why I would have them invited here for his birthday."

"Where you can not only gain their loyalty, but protect Albion as well." he muses, "Good. Then I will make arrangements for it tomorrow."

"You will rest before you do anything."

He raises his brows briefly in a way that tells her he has every intention of doing just the opposite. She opens her mouth to tell him he doesn't have a choice in the matter, but before she can say anything Logan takes her chin between his thumb and his index finger. She feels a ripple of pleasure at his touch and she finds herself tilting her head towards him, overcome with the longing to feel his lips on hers.

Even as a child she was oddly compelled by him.

When they were young, she would crawl into his bed and wrap her arms around him. After a while, it became a kind of ritual for her, each night she would to sleep in her own bed and wake each morning in his. At first, he did not seem to mind. But then he became a man, and as he told her, young men do not share beds with their infant sisters. The innocent thing they shared became…improper. She couldn't understand at the time. All she knew was that once he had cared for, then one day he turned her away. It felt like a betrayal. The memory of it pains her still.

However, now she understands. Not that it changes anything. She still loves him as she did back then. The only difference is that back then she loved as a child and now she loves him as a woman. Either way, that love is the worst kind of sin. For too long she has allowed herself to forget they are bound by blood. He is her brother and it is time she starting him like one.

"You have been kind to me, sister." he murmurs, his mouth millimeters from hers, "More than I deserve."

It takes all her strength to push his hand away and climb to her feet. Though the glass of wine he abandoned helps. There is by no means enough left of it to leave her in her blissful stupor, but it's warm and bitter and seems to embrace her from the inside out.

A few more glasses and she will forget all about the man in front of her.

"You should find a wife, Logan. Have a few children of your own."

He clenches his jaw and his eyes harden, "And how would I do that when the entire kingdom hates me?"

"There are many people outside of Albion." She trails her finger around the rim of her glass, avoiding his gaze. "I hear Runnec women are very beautiful."

"Hmmm..."

"And their bloodlines date back centuries."

He is silent, staring at the few candles on his bedside table with a troubled expression.

Without another word, she bids him goodnight and makes for the door. He seizes her wrist before she can take another step away from him, his thumb grazes lightly over the raised white skin that covers the lower half of her arm. Logan's eyes narrow at the sight of the crescent shaped scar, and a look of anger passes over his handsome face. Perhaps she will tell him about them someday. When her King has returned and Logan is married and a mere touch of his hand doesn't leave her wanting for something as wicked and unnatural as this. When she can trust herself around him.

His dark eyes dart back and forth, searching her face for something.

"If marriage is what you want." he releases her, "Then so be it."


End file.
